Is This What Becomes of Love?

Picture a young couple sat on a romantic table for two in the prized window location. Outside, the hum of life acts out its natural course whilst inside the firmly fixed table presents an array of steaming dishes all the colours of the rainbow. But the beautiful pair remain silent. The buzz of life is not as loud as the buzz of technology. Eyes locked on laps the lovers sit in silence, unable to exchange more than a grunt towards each other.

Is this what becomes of love?

Now imagine on the ground below a family. A gathering stood in unity on the very streets which not a week ago cradled their darling as she drifted into a long, deep, sleep. The cracked cement barely clean, the group scroll through comments of condolence and pixelated shouts. The invisible vocals scream for the head of a man they do not know in repayment for a corpse they do not know. Unable to change fate and human emotion, the huddled unit desperately make a plea to the man in the cloud. They beg him to remove their daughter from public memory, but the man says he can’t. What he giveth he cannot taketh away.

Is this what becomes of death?

Take a snapshot of the young woman tottering past the stained tiles in high heels. She joins a group of friends at the town’s third classiest bar on a table laden with overpriced toxic juice. Talk is cheap but photos might equal fame, so they ignore deep conversation in favour of recording every second of this meeting in pictorial form. Every angle in a multitude of colours and effects, it is no wonder that their untouched beverages overflow with melted ice. Who said the world is in a constant state of movement when it can be fixed and recorded in a hundred sepia selfies.

Is this what becomes of life?

Widen the lens and tucked away you find my lone figure in the shadows. The painted ladies momentarily glance in my direction before carrying on as before. Averting my gaze, I shuffle past to an attractive window display at the end of the street, but instead of venturing in I choose to remain external. I photo the object of my desires and walk on before I’m caught in the act. Later I will enable a computer to put another man on the streets from the comfort of my living room sofa. I see you and feel moved to take a secondary snap to share with strangers in Vancouver, Paris and Jerusalem. No model release form needed, I will happily take your pain and use it to claim one second of fame. Anything to get a virtual gratification hit.

Is this what becomes of me?


Five Minute Review: The Food of Love by Anthony Capella

Ergh, do I have to spend five minutes on this? Ok, fine.

The Food of Love by Anthony Capella is a rom-com novel, based in and around the streets of Rome, Italy. The plot follows the story of two Italian men who work in the restaurant industry, as they fight for the love of one woman (what’s new there?) The more attractive of the two, self-styled player Tommaso, woos the fair American student, Laura, first by convincing her of his extraordinary culinary skills. The catch? He cannot cook to save his life. However his roommate, the less attractive and uncharismatic chef Bruno, can. Secondary catch, he too is in love with Laura (dun, dun, duuun). So instead of confessing his love what does he do? He helps his player friend by teaching him culinary skills to charm the fair lady, thus becoming the ultimate wing man/gooseberry. Unsurprisingly as the lie gets bigger so too does the (supposedly) hilarious consequences.

As my sister noted when I told her the synopsis, The Food of Love story is basically an Italian version of the Disney film Ratatouille. If you liked that story, but wanted something with more sex, swearing and over sexualisation of mushrooms then you’ll probably enjoy this. *

I should have known that this book would not be an Austen or Orwell when I picked it up in a charity shop for 50p (on sale). At the time I needed a light read as a rest bite from more serious subject matter. No guesses for where my copy will be swiftly going back to in the next week.

*FYI rats and bestiality do not feature in this novel, at least the author didn’t stoop to that level.

The Most Middle Class, Passive-Aggressive, Valentine’s Day Card You’ll Ever See

Ok, so let me get straight to it, yesterday was my first Valentine’s Day with a another human being* (*not to say it’s the first Valentine’s spent with company, I have enjoyed many a V Day with cats, TV, wine, chocolate…). However I just can’t seem to get my head around making a song and dance out of chocolate and roses. I thought it would make complete sense when you have someone to buy stuff for but instead it’s actually worse. Its like Inception, the deeper and more involved you get the less and less it makes any shred of sense.

For me, the pinnacle of the V Day confusion and inner turmoil was the important part of selecting a low to medium value cruddy piece of tree we call ‘gift cards’ (you can probably see where this post is going already). The difficulty selecting a suitable Valentine’s Day card embodied completely the inner awkward-come-British-come-Alice reaction to the whole Western festival.

Now most people (including the tall bearded one) just write in their cards, “To X…Love Y” No one gave me this memo. As a result, instead of getting a cutesy, charming note, my Valentine essentially got a passive-aggressive message reflecting the inner frustrations of his other half’s quest to find (and buy) said card.



Message reads as follows:

To Stewart,

My God, if you knew how much middle class, British, stress I went through just to find this ruddy card. Like seriously why do all Valentines cards have to be either so ridiculously over the top (since when are men turned on by fluffy bears?!) or look like they belong at a funeral? Christ, where is the middle ground? It’s like buying low fat hummus when there’s a shortage – it shouldn’t be that big a deal but it damn well is!

Anyway, happy Valentine’s day. Your face and personality are kinda awesome (unlike my lovey dovey card writing abilities). I bought you man stuff (vodka + energy drink) because they contain red. Boom – should plan weddings.

Christ, don’t make me write another one of these.

Alice xxx

And let it be known that I deliver on my promises, this is what the tall one got from me…


(See what I did with the bubble wand? After a bottle of vodka that bubble wand is going to be the greatest thing since sliced bread.)

I know right? Best damn girlfriend there is.